


Outside the Box

by monimala



Category: Grey's Anatomy
Genre: BDSM, BDSM Scene, F/M, Flogging, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-05 19:30:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1097761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monimala/pseuds/monimala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set nebulously in season 10. Assumes Owen and Cristina have had an ongoing consensual BDSM relationship. <i>She’d stopped asking. He’d stopped expecting. But this was more than a question.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Outside the Box

It was open on the coffee table when he walked in. An unassuming teak puzzle box. Simply designed. Gleaming, as if they hadn’t allowed it to gather dust. As if they hadn’t allowed themselves to forget. The first secret drawer was open. Empty. The velvet smoothed flat with a perfectionist’s attention to detail.

Because the collar was around her bared throat. A smooth silver circlet, as pristine as a scalpel and shining against the pale slope of her neck.

Just the sight of it was enough. Every dormant instinct roared to life. His need, his want, his desire to please. Clicking into place as surely and swiftly as his claim on her. He imagined it had been much the same for her. Flowing through her as she opened the box. While she knelt on the rug, her hands folded placidly behind her even as her chin was raised in defiance and her dark eyes dared him to turn and walk away.

She knew he wouldn’t. He knew he’d stay.

It had been too long. She’d stopped asking. He’d stopped expecting. But this was more than a question. It was an offer. Of herself. Because there was something only he could give her. Not sex, but satisfaction. Completion. Escape.

He unbuttoned his shirt with numb fingers, and her lips curved into a smile when the sleeves fell away and revealed the cuffs round his wrists. Simple, hammered silver. More binding than the wedding rings they’d fooled themselves into buying. It was their promise to each other. No limits except the ones they’d set. No boundaries except those they’d drawn. No judgment except of when the play was done.

“Owen.” She said his name with such intimacy. Such love. He’d missed it. Craved it. Just like the feel of a flogger in his hands. And he went to the box without hesitation, opening the second drawer.

Here were their tools, lined up in neat order. Clamps. Gauges. Blades. And the supple leather of a short-handled riding crop. He’d used them all on her. She’d trained him, taught him, no less brilliant in the bedroom than she was in an OR. Brought out impulses he’d never known he had. Made him do—and enjoy—things he never thought possible.

The first time he’d choked her, it had been a horrible accident. The second, the third and the fourth…completely on purpose.

“Owen,” she said again, as if she sensed his pause. And she probably did. Whatever emotional gulf stretched between them, in this she’d always been in tune with his every thought, his every move. “Come to me.”

Trust Cristina Yang to take command of her submission. And he did trust her. With his body and his mind, if not his heart.

He chose the flogger, long since molded to his grip, its slender thongs still soft and lethal, and moved toward her. Behind her. She was curved like a bow, all smooth, exposed skin and curly dark hair swept up off her neck. No one had marked her since him. No one would dare. 

When she’d called, he hadn’t asked why. Didn’t need to. The why was clear in the way she held herself. The way she waited. The way she arched into it when he struck her for the first time in months. A light stroke across her back, barely a tickle, just a tease. But then he found his rhythm, with alternating flicks of his wrists, hitting her beautiful ass, the base of her spine, the tops of her shoulders. And her hisses of pleasure-pain urged him to go harder, deeper, join her in the zone. _Thwack_. _Thwack. Thwack_. The whisper-slap of the leather was hypnotic. It was work. It was beauty. A sheen of sweat broke out across his arms and chest as an answering red flush bloomed across her back and her thighs.

Spreader bars. Zip ties. Ropes. They’d experimented with all sorts of things in the early days, but it was the simplest _self_ -restraint that she lived for. The safe, uncomplicated place where she held back and where he let go. Where he didn’t have to be the nurturer and she didn’t have to be the cold, calculating genius. All they had to be was _present_.

She was openly moaning now, trying to breathe through the sharp throb of each landed blow, and his cock responded, straining against the fly of his jeans. It wanted to be inside her. Balls deep when she finally broke. But that wasn’t who they were now. Not lovers. Not husband and wife. Just partners. Giving and receiving a different kind of bliss. He’d find his release later. Now, here, this was all hers.

He switched out the flogger for the crop, urging her forward on her knees with her perfect, rosy ass in the air. It only took him striping her twice for her to hit the edge and tumble to the black. “You can come,” he told her, softly. A variation on her order to him. “Come for me.” And she did. He saw it in her blown-wide pupils, heard it in the incoherent cries that tore from her lips. Felt it in the gorgeous curve of her body, presented to him in ecstatic supplication. Cristina Yang, supersurgeon, was gone. Replaced by a creature of total sensation. She shook with it. An orgasm that went on and on. Beyond pain. Beyond love. Beyond _him_.

He set the crop aside, grabbing a throw off the couch and dragging it down to the floor to wrap around her. In his arms, curled against his lap, she was small and trembling and vulnerable. And still the strongest person he knew.

She slipped her fingers around his wrist, along the lines of the cuff. He pressed his mouth to her collar, tasting metal and sweat.

“Thank you,” she whispered when she could speak again.

“Anytime,” he said, meaning it sincerely. “Whenever you need me.”

Whenever. Wherever.

All she had to do was open the box.

 

 

\--end—

 

December 23, 2013


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